


Skyrim: The Tale of The Bard

by JLawrence_Kenny



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-04-18 22:09:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4722173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JLawrence_Kenny/pseuds/JLawrence_Kenny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's true, I cannot lift a sword in my own defense, let alone others." The grin on the bard's face only widened. "Yet one's own voice can be far more deadly if used in the right manner, or far more inspirational. Why lift a single sword with my arm when I can rouse a hundred more with words alone?" A story about the true power of a single Voice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ulfric I

_**Sundas, 17th of Last Seed. 4E201** **9:30 AM** _

**Ulfric Stormcloak**

I am Ulfric Stormcloak. Jarl of Windhelm. Student of the Greybeards of High Hrothgar. Leader of the Revolution of the Sons of Skyrim.

And this is the day of my death.

Today, I leave the mortal plane behind, to join my brothers and sisters in Sovngarde. I can only hope the gods forgive the transgressions I have committed in pursuit of justice. But then the timing of the Imperial ambush that leads us now to our deaths was so perfect... Perhaps the gods have abandoned us. Although I find treachery a far more likely explanation.

Our carriage jumps around as we pass over a pothole, pulling me away from my thoughts. I look around, curiosity getting the better of me. From the multitude of pine trees around me, I know we're somewhere in the Hold of Falkreath. Nature flourishes in the south of Skyrim, but I confess it holds less grandeur for myself compared to some of my brethren. My childhood was filled with grand stone walls, surrounded by frozen tundras and volcanic fields. The Throat of the World towers above us, throwing dark shadows for miles, making the morning seem darker than it should. An ominous sign. No doubt the Greybeards still harbor resentment toward me for abandoning my studies at its peak. But no amount of meditation would cool the fire in my veins, could never satisfy my need to protect my homeland, when the call to battle came so long ago. I often wonder how the world would be had I remained a disciple of the Voice.

Another jolt. Poorly maintained roads. A groan draws my attention in close to my fellow cart mates - and prisoners. Across from me, a man in rags. A thief by the look of him, and a coward. He's done naught but complain the last hour. Next to him sits a man in my own colors. Ralof, if I remember correctly. Yes... A passionate young man, though somewhat unremarkable. I want to speak, reassure him. But the cloth in my mouth prevents me from doing anything but breathe, and even that takes effort. Beside me is another man in rags. Unlike the thief, though, he has an aura of culture about him. Beneath the recent bruising and dirt, his face is angular, his hair groomed; even after being tossed unconscious into the cart with us. In the wrong place at the wrong time, and now the Empire will surely punish him for it. Bastards.

The three have been bickering while I mused. I hadn't noticed until Ralof mentioned my name, startling the others. "Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion!" I'm not sure to be flattered or insulted that the thief didn't recognize my face. Panic enters the man's voice as he realizes the severity of his situation; I doubt he will make it anywhere near the headsman's block. "But if they've captured you... Oh gods, where are they taking us?"

Ralof's words echo my thoughts. "I don't know where we're going. But Sovngarde awaits."

I lose interest as the soldier begins comforting the distraught thief. The other prisoner - a Breton by the name of Talao, I learn as Ralof asks - is handling the situation far better than I would have assumed, though he keeps glancing at me questioningly. I ignore him in favor of watching the road ahead. All too soon, I see our destination. Helgen. Of course; there's an Imperial bastion here. I can here the sounds of a bustling town slowly dying as our procession enters. Imperial archers line the walls, obviously dying to loose their arrows into any foolish enough to take off.

"Look at him," I hear Ralof spit, "General Tullius, the military governor." The military fop; he interests me not. "And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn Elves." Though his words are heated, they turn the blood in my veins to ice. I turn, and sure enough, next to Tullius sits an Altmer in pitch black clothes. Elenwen, of all people.

Shor save us. What is that Thalmor bitch doing here?... Her presence can't possibly be coincidence. Have the Thalmor finally decided to clean up loose ends? Is she here to ensure my death, or are her machinations more devious? Through it all, I refuse to back down from her damned condescending sneer. I return her smug stare with venom.  _You don't own me, elf. You never have._

Finally, the carts come to a stop. The horse thief is hyperventilating now, and rambling in terror. I honestly want to punt the coward out of the cart, but it's beneath my dignity. My men look to me for composure. I must be above such pettiness. I notice the other prisoner tumble out of the cart with a cry of pain after me. I notice, as Ralof helps him up, that his leg seems oddly twisted, as if deformed. An old wound, then. Still, there is no time to reflect as the Imperials have already begun to open their lists. The names of every known dissident of the Empire are written on those lists. Surprisingly, I find the Imperial standing in front of me, condemning my soldiers, is a fellow Nord. Another traitor to his people. It disgusts me that one could renounce their ideals so freely, for mere politics.

"Ulfric Stormcloak!"

First to go, then. I shrug off the Imperial hand upon my shoulder, as he leads me away from my compatriots. Ralof calls to me, but I can barely hear him over the blood rushing through my ears as I survey the scene. The headsman stands before us, his axe well-sharpened and gleaming, the chopping block lying at the ready. I should have known better; as if the Empire would bother with a trial. Seems they've given up even the pretense of justice now. All the better. If nothing else, more and more people will soon realize the justness of our cause and fly to our banner as the Empire slowly destroys everything it stands for. Even if the leader of that banner is not myself.

A scuffle reaches my ears behind me, and glance to see the horse thief burst through the line of Imperials. His flight is short-lived, though, and he nearly instantly drops to the ground in a flurry of limbs, numerous arrows buried in his back. I knew he'd never make it to the block. A coward to the end. To Oblivion with him; I've my own date to keep.

By the time all the names had been read, a sizable crowd had formed around the yard, clearly anticipating a spectacle. Nary a friendly face to be found. Tullius walks into the yard, and faces me directly. The esteemed general had obviously been dying to make a speech. "Ulfric Stormcloak. Some here in Helgen call you a hero. But a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne."

A pitiful start. And false on several counts. A retort passes my tongue, but no further, as the gag restrains me. The coward refuses me any last words as he rambles on, addressing the crowd as much as myself, clearly wanting to make some kind of example of the situation. "You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos. And now the Empire is going to put you down and restore the peace!" The crowd murmurs in assent, my Stormcloaks in disgust. Personally, I find the man's little speech dull beyond compare. He has no sense of eloquence, his words sounding rehearsed and flat. Even at half his age - perhaps even a third, given his graying hair - I could captivate a crowd with a few sentences, drive them into the heights of passion. I understand the souls of my fellow men, and how to inspire them.

Suddenly, a shriek pierces the mid-morning air. Everyone stirs uneasily, and I admit somewhere in the back of my mind, a twinge of primal fear appears. But it is gone as quickly as it came, and I dismiss the noise; the howl of the wind carving through the mountain pass, perhaps. The crowd swiftly settled as well; a Priestess of Arkay stepped forward to deliver our last rites. More Imperial custom than Nord, but decent of them. Or at least, it would be if their priests did not bow the whims of the Elves.

"As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon..."

"For the love of Talos, shut up and let's get this over with."

The Priestess sounds surprised and affronted as Baldor - whose heart burns with a passion so great, I sometimes think it burned out his mind - interrupts her and steps fearlessly toward the headsman. I don't know why she reacted as such; one should expect vitriol when you slight a man's god, even a "heretic's." My heart fills with pride as Baldor taunts the Imperials even as they force him down upon the block. Such bravery. Bravery all my Stormcloaks possess. To die for their beliefs, fighting an unjust Empire, whether by sword or axe.

I don't look away or flinch as the axe finishes its deadly arc. I have seen far worse in my life than a body and head separated from each other. The crowd cries out as the body is unceremoniously shoved aside.

"Justice!"

"You Imperial bastards!"

"Death to the Stormcloaks!"

I lock eyes with Tullius as the captain calls out, "Next, the Breton!" Of course. He wants me to go last. To watch as my men lay down their lives, knowing that I will share their fate. I would feel guilt for their deaths, but for the fact that they are not here following my banner; they are here because they followed their ideals.

Another shriek cuts through the air. Much louder than before. And much, much closer. My blood chills. There is no mistaking it for the wind this time. That howl was undeniably the call of an apex predator. Some creature atop the pecking order, and knows it. But what? I've never heard anything like it in my life, though I feel an ancient part of me quail in fear before it. The crowd is visibly agitated now, but the Imperials push on. The Breton is walked to the block. Amazingly, he seems almost uninterested in his impending death, gazing around, as if curious about the sound. In my mind, I honor him. I remember Ralof's earlier words: A Nord's last thoughts should be of home. And so my own thoughts turn to Windhelm. The majesty of the Palace of Kings, where I spent my childhood, and it's storied history. The strength of its walls and its peoples, with whom I strove to make our world a better place.

As the Breton is brought painfully to his knees... I am not a man given to excessive prayer. I have always preferred to proclaim my faith through the truth of actions than through words that have no substance behind them. And yet for this man, whether fearless or foolhardy, I find myself speaking within me.  _Mighty Talos. I have sought in my life to honour you through battle and glory. I have fought to save your divine name from enemies who would have your struck from the annals of history, and defile all that for which you stand. Should this be my time to die, I embrace it willingly, knowing I have striven my best to achieve my goals, and knowing others will take up your banner in my absence. But I implore you; spare this innocent life before me, whose only guilt lies in poor fortune. He does not deserve to die a meaningless death by the treachery of this false Empire._

So engrossed am I, it is not until someone forces me to the ground that I notice anything wrong. The ground shakes beneath me, and all of Helgen is in an uproar. I look up and freeze from disbelief. Shock and awe bind my feet. Has Talos answered my prayer? Is this a blessing I have brought upon us, or a curse? Someone unties my hands, and I rip the gag from my mouth. I run from the great black beast without a second thought. I never understood the phrase "Discretion is the better part of valor" until this very moment.

"DRAGON!"


	2. Ralof I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Greetings friends, and welcome to Skyrim: The Tale of The Bard. This particular story has been eating away at my brain for about a year now. I'll not spoil the point of this story, but I will mention that it follows the canon MQ rather strictly. The events will remain the same for the most part, but reactions will differ from what's expected. Hopefully, my style and format will keep the story fresh despite you hearing the story you've read and played a hundred times already. A/Ns will be at an absolute minimum, and thanks again for reading. Also, keep an eye out later in the story for a companion fic; the plot itself will remind you.

_**Sundas, 17** **th** **of Last Seed 4E201 10AM** _

**Ralof**

My name is Ralof. I was born and raised in a small town called Riverwood. When Ulfric revolted against a traitorous Empire, I flew to his side and became a Son of Skyrim.

And today, we have escaped the Empire's jaws of death.

Though perhaps the far deadlier pair of jaws flying above us may still bring about our end. When the beast appeared, there was no mistaking it. The form of Akatosh, not seen in Skyrim since the Second Era. A dragon. And then it opened its mouth, and it was as if Oblivion has come to Mundus. A shockwave, followed by flaming rocks falling from the sky. Someone cuts me loose from my binds.

Now I find myself grabbing the Breton prisoner, shouting, "Come on, Breton, get up! The gods won't give us another chance!" I feel more strongly about saving this man than I should, perhaps. But then, I can't shake the feeling that the timing was too perfect to be aught but divine intervention; the dragon interrupted a split-second before the man's head would have been split from his body.

I practically drag the stumbling man to the nearby watchtower, where my fellow Stormcloaks have taken refuge, slamming the heavy door shut behind us. Not that I'm convinced it would stop a dragon, of course. Jarl Ulfric is here as well, besieged by questions from all sides.

"Was that really a dragon?"

"Could the legends be true?"

Somehow, the Jarl remains unfazed, as though we had not all nearly been eaten alive, answering with a quick statement; "Legends don't burn down villages." We are surrounded by the commotion of screams and roars that reach even through the mortar of the building.

The Breton - Talao, I recall - catches my attention. "Pardon," he says, rubbing his now free wrists, "but perhaps we could discuss what it is or isn't once we're no longer in danger of becoming its lunch."

Another roar punctuates the silent agreement of the room, and Jarl Ulfric shouts over the noise, "We need to get moving, now!" I grab the prisoner once more, pulling him up the stairs. We need to get a better view of our surroundings to figure out how best to escape. Thankfully, his leg doesn't seem to slow him down overmuch. The curiosity I noticed in him earlier is gone, replaced by determination and no small amount of fear. Can't blame him for that. It happens to new recruits as well, their first battle. Or they dissolve into a blubbering pile of tears. One or the other. We reach the next level, only the find the stairway impassable, barred by rocks. Another soldier pushes past us, trying to clear the path, but as I move forward to help him, an entire section of the outer wall bursts in, sending me sprawling back against the intact wall behind me. The bloody dragon! It's entire neck is in the tower, and even more monstrous up close; it's head alone larger than my entire body. I can feel my skin heat and blister as it opens its mouth and spews a gout of fire upon the unfortunate soldier ahead of us, incinerating him. The screams are ungodly.

To be honest, I feel like I'm next. The fire stops, and the head turns directly toward us. Will it eat me whole? Roast me alive like the soldier? Damn it all to Oblivion, I don't even have a weapon to defend myself. But by Talos, I'll look my death in the eye, and hope that satisfies the gods. But then I notice, as I stare the best down, it's not even looking at me. I see intelligence in its terrifying crimson eyes. It proclaims, "Look at me. See my power and tremble before it." And that gaze, I swear, is directed straight at Talao. Then the head abruptly withdraws, and we are alone as the dragon continues to terrorize the town.

I'll admit, it takes me a moment to regain my wits. I want to interrogate Talao, find out what he knows, and why a dragon would resurrect itself from extinction just to glare at him. But right now, survival takes priority over curiosity. The stairwell is now hopelessly blocked, so I glance out of the new window in the tower instead. It's an honest to gods nightmare; flames everywhere, buildings completely destroyed, arrows flying through the air. No sign of obvious safe passage. The house directly beside us has lost its roof, but mostly seems stable. Not ideal, but it will keep us moving.

"See that roof over there? Jump through!" Talao clutches his leg, as if to remind me of his injury, but there's no time for sympathy. "Keep moving if you want to live, damn it! We'll follow as soon as we can."

He nods shakily, and I hear him mutter, "Y'ffre guide me." Before he can second-guess himself - or me - he leaps out into the air. I wince as he catches the lip of the room, but miraculously he lands in a bed. I wave him on before rushing back downstairs to retrieve my companions. Only to swear as I notice them missing. No doubt they fled when the dragon lit upon the tower.

"By the Frozen Wastes!" I hate to abandon Talao, but my comrades and my Jarl come first. And if he truly has the favor of the gods, as I'm convinced, surely someone will come to his aid.


	3. Hadvar I

_**Sundas, 17th of Last Seed 4E201 10am** _

**Hadvar**

My name is Hadvar. Soldier in the Imperial Legion. A loyal Nord, despite what those in Windhelm might think. Proud citizen of the Empire. Protector of the people.

This knowledge is all that keeps me from melting into a puddle of fear from the might of the beast currently destroying Helgen. While most of my detachment fends off the beast, I do my best to bring townsfolk to what safety I can find. Not that I have much faith in doing so; even as I escort an old man under cover, I watch the dragon - a gods-honest dragon! - bash its head directly through one of the guard towers. Solid stone and mortar that took months to build and reinforce, walls that have stood up to countless bandit raids, knocked aside as though it were a shanty of sticks. Countless arrows find their marks in the dragon's hide, only to bounce off harmlessly. Unbelievable. Any delusions of fighting this beast, this demon, are shattered in my mind. Escape is the only option.

I hear a cry nearby. A man trapped benearth rubble, his son desperately shoving at the unmoving stone. I notice the dragon leap from the ramparts, heading directly for us. Fear assails me again, but I use it to power my limbs, sprinting for the pair. I grab the boy, throwing me over my shoulder, ignoring his screams as the beast lands in front of us, shaking the ground and almost causing me to fall over. The thanks in the man's face is evident, but my mind is elsewhere as he yells at me, "Go, save him!" I dive behind the wall with the old man, my boots scorched with fire as it bathes the ground where I'd been seconds earlier. Even under cover, the heat is oppressive, and the sounds the dragon is making... Would it were louder, that I could drown out the screams of dying men, but no such luck.

Shaking, I hand the now crying boy over to the old man, when movement catches my attention from the corner of my eye. My hand flies to the hilt of my sword, but when I turn, all I see is a man in rags falling to the ground from the second story of the now burnt-out inn. Where in Kyne's name did he come from? Surely he hadn't been in there since this all began? I look up to the destroyed tower behind the inn, just in time to see another figure disappear from a gaping hole in its side. He jumped? Damn. The man is brave, if nothing else.

I offer him my hand, and realize with a start that he is the Breton that arrived with the prisoners. Saved from the chopping block from the dragon, if you could call it saving. Happy coincidence, that; I'd have hated to see another innocent die because of that thrice-damned traitor, Ulfric.

"Still alive, prisoner?" I ask, more out of amazement than curiosity.

"It's Talao," he responds pointedly. Quite a lot of spunk for a man who's nearly died several times today. "I am, and if you don't mind, I'd like to remain so." He glares at my sword, which I note is bared directly at him.

I lower it hastily, but do not sheathe it. Danger, and all that. "Good. Stick with me if you want to stay that way. Gunnar, take care of the boy."

The old man looks at me with pride and hope as he comforts the boy. "Gods guide you, Hadvar." This. This is why I am a Legionnaire. Not for praise, or adoration, or battle. I wanted to be a shield for my people. And if I save even one person from the fires of Oblivion today, I will be content.

Enough dallying. "We need to find General Tullius and join the defense." The General will know what to do. The man's a military genius.

We run, heading toward the sound of the General's voice. A roar sounds close overhead. "Stay close to the wall!" I yell, as we squeeze through a narrow alley. The ground tosses beneath us with such force that we both go tumbling down, landing on our backs. Not ten feet above us, perched on the wall next to us, sits the dragon, another gout of fire spewing forth. Surely, we'll both die now, I think, covering my face from the vicious fire and blinding light. I swear I can feel blisters popping across my uncovered skin. But again, it lifts off, granting us a reprieve, and somehow another chance to escape.

Why is it here, for gods' sake? If we knew why, we might be able to do something. Is it hungry? Angry? Is destruction its sole desire, or is it far more nefarious? Is it even intelligent?

So many questions, yet all I can do is drag Talao through the glowing wreckage to the General. Atop his horse, he frantically but deliberately issues order to the troops. "Maintain ranks! FALL BACK!" An archer on the wall is grabbed by the dragon, and let loose to plummet to his death, screaming, a mockery of the creature's flight which ends with a sickening crunch. I've seen far worse horrors committed on the battlefield, but the sheer helplessness I feel, the despair is overwhelming. The general is right; full retreat is our only option now.

"Guards, get the townspeople to safety!" The command spurs me to action once more, heading to the garrison with Talao in close pursuit. He may not have been a townsperson, but I believed in the man's innocence and knew that other soldiers likely wouldn't be as eager to protect him if they recognized him from the cart.

We're only a few dozen yards from the door when I see him, clad in blues and greys. By Ysmir, can't I catch a break? "Ralof!" He whirls around at the mention of his name, dropping into a battle stance. "You damned traitor, out of my way!"

"We're esaping, Hadvar. You won't stop us this time, milk drinker!"

My blood boils at his casual arrogance. "Like Oblivion you will. I'll send you to Sovngarde myself! That is, if they admit traitorous heathens like you."

I move toward him, ready to spill his guts on the ground, when something pulls me back. Talao is suddenly between us. "Are you both completely daft?! There's a dragon in the sky above us, raining death and destruction, and you're acting like petty children over a sweetroll. Put aside your damn squabble until we're no longer an instant from being eaten alive!"

I nearly scoff at the notion, but astonishingly, Ralof nods and sheathes his weapon at the prisoner's words. I'm so surprised, I barely register him charge us, yelling "Get down!" He tackles Talao and myself to the ground, knocking the wind out of me. Bastard! A trick? I wrestle my sword arm free, intent on skewering him before he does the like to me, when my heart jumps into my throat. A gust of wind slams into us, and black claws grasp at the air we'd just inhabited. We'd been a split-second from the exact fate Talao had warned us of.

Ralof stands, hurriedly helping us all well. "I reckon the man's got the right of things, don't you, Imperial?"

Damn him, but he's right. But I can't truly find it in me to hate him for it. Not just now. "Truce then. Quickly, into the keep." At least there we'll only have to worry about rocks falling on us instead of dragons.""


	4. Hadvar II

_**Sundas, 17** **th** **of Last Seed. 4E201. 2PM** _

Hadvar

Fresh air hits me in the face; a welcome relief after an hour of stale cave air. But no time to relish it yet. I keep low to the ground, dashing to a nearby rock for cover. Waiting. Listening.

There, the beat of heavy wings. A monstrous roar passes above me, but thankfully I seem to have gone unnoticed. I hope. The dragon flies swiftly to the south, passing over a nearby ridge and out of sight.

I wait another moment before I signal the all-clear behind me. Were anyone watching at the time, they'd probably have been surprised to see the ragtag group of both Imperials and Stormcloaks escaping the cave. To be frank, I know I still was. To see a Stormcloak helping out an Imperial with a broken leg. I could say it was solely the fear of the dragon forcing enemies together, rivalries forgotten in the face of survival, but in reality...

I see Talao in the middle of the group, telling a joke, bringing laughter in what was essentially the aftermath of a warzone. The man's charisma is astounding. He convinced every single soldier we met within Helgen into joining the escape effort. He pulled citizens from rubble with us, and even once physically stopping a soldier trying to stab another in the back. Then berated him so soundly, the man willingly threw away his weapon in remorse. Quite a sight.

The soldiers and townspeople laugh and whoop as they leave the cave, breathing in the midday air. Smiles surround me. But for the sight of smoke in the distance behind us, there is no sign of the hell we went through here, and it is invigorating. Cheerful goodbyes are exchanged, then the groups head out; Imperials to the west, Stormcloaks to the east. Ralof, Talao, and I, however, head north to Riverwood, my hometown. Ralof's too. The dragon had gratefully passed it by, its bloodlust seemingly satisfied. But it was unlikely anyone had understood exactly what it was, if they had seen it at all. We needed to spread the word, and quickly. We would spend the night in Riverwood, then Talao would set off for Whiterun, the nearest city, and and trading capital of Skyrim, while Ralof and I would warn Riften and Markarth, respectively. The other holds would be passed through by returning soldiers, but for Dawnstar and Winterhold, more easily reached by boat couriers. The holds may be shored up for war, but dragons... That's beyond what anyone could have prepared for in this day and age.

In the meantime, however, the walk to Riverwood is subdued. True, Talao does ask a few questions about the area, and I am glad to point our a few of the sights, such as the infamous Bleak Falls Barrow - nasty place, that, and source of no few nightmares in my youth. Draugr sneaking in during the night, and all that. But for the most part, an icy silence lingers between Ralof and myself. He studiously ignores me, but I can't help wondering what goes through his mid.

We grew up together in Riverwood. Small town that it is, we became swift friends and rivals, bumping heads, but sharing a stolen mug of mead at the end of the night. He was always the impulsive one. Not to say I was smarter, simply more level-headed. Even at a young age, he and his family were utterly devoted in their worship of Talos. When the Empire's war with the Aldmeri Dominion came, we were too young to join the fight. Ralof's father died in the war, and his mother drank herself to an early grave, leaving him in the care of his sister. My father was a Legionnaire, and his before him, but both had died long before that war. So I couldn't relate to the anguish he felt during that time.

Then the terms of the White-Gold Concordat became known. At first, few in Skyrim paid much attention, as much from disbelief as disgust. How could you tell a people who they were allowed to worship? And how would you enforce their thoughts? But when word of Aldmeri Enforcers executing entire families for open worship of Talos started circulating, even Ralof took his faith behind closed doors. Until his cousin was spirited away one night. It wasn't hard to put two and two together then. I never saw a man run so fast as when word of Ulfric's rebellion reached Riverwood.

Knowing all this... Could I truly despise the man for joining the Stormcloaks?

The silence was getting to me, and the quiet swell of the river wasn't helping at all. "Hey, Talao." The Breton seems caught up in the scenery around him, and I have to call him again to catch his attention. Wish I could be so carefree. "What exactly were you doing at Darkwater Crossing when you stumbled in that ambush?"

"Nothing terribly extraordinary." Out of danger, I notice now how soothing the man's voice is; furloughs separate from the usual harsh voices I am accustomed to hearing in Skyrim. "My companion and I were merely travelling, searching for excitement."

"You're an adventurer?" Ralof asks, somewhat skeptical. I can't help but agree with him in my mind; the man is much too wiry and... Well, of course, his injury.

"Though I might sometimes wish it, no. I ply my trade as a bard. I hire or follow adventurers around, hoping to capture some new story to tell. Randolph, the man I was travelling with, had told me he was planning something grand, so I followed to see what would occur." Talao's face showed a strange combination of disappointment and glee. "Though I doubt a man idiotic enough to charge a line of Legionnaires would have amounted to more than a pitiable laugh. Ah well, at least some good came of it."

This puzzles me. "For the life of me, I can't see any bright side to your story."

He answers with an incredulous look. "Honestly? You don't see anything fantastical about the sighting of the first dragon since the Second Era? The appearance of a long-extinct race? Something world-changing is afoot, and I intend to be there to witness it!"

"Incredible indeed," Ralof replies offhandedly. "Quite the series of events that lead you to that chopping block with us. Maybe that dragon came just for you, eh?"

...I feel like I'm missing out on something important. I almost miss the slight fall of Talao's smile, as he responds, "I highly doubt that. I'm not nearly important enough for such theatrics. Lucky happenstance to be audience, that's all." Ralof seems to be scrutinizing Talao. Again, I wonder what on Nirn is going on in his head.

For better or worse, the swiftly approaching town of Riverwood interrupts our conversation. Still standing; thank the Eight the dragon passed it by. It was jarring, passing through the gate into the sleepy town. We've only just escaped the jaws of a gods-honest dragon, and yet here life goes on the same as always. As if nothing happened. Which, I suppose, would be true if no one had been looking up recently. That's life, I guess. Though if that dragon is a herald for more, I doubt even Riverwood will remain so lax. Our destination reached, we split; Ralof and I to our families, and Talao to the inn. Supposedly to gather information and supplies before heading to Whiterun.

Hopefully he'll get there before any dragons do.


	5. Sven I

_**Sundas, 17th of Last Seed 4E201 5PM** _

**Sven**

I never particularly liked my hometown of Riverwood. Perhaps it's because of the constant state of twilight the town lives in, nestled between two of the tallest mountain ridges in Skyrim. Perhaps it's the fact that I was never the rough type, like the other children I grew up with, who always wanted to play Guards and Bandits.

Maybe it's the overwhelming presence of my mother.

Whatever the cause, no one was surprised when I leapt at the chance to leave when I'd heard the Bard's College in Solitude was searching for applicants. I scrounged together all the spare septims I had earned from doing odd jobs around town, and left despite my mother's protests. Solitude and the College were beyond anything I'd ever seen before. And when I completed my training, my freedom became infinite. I would travel wherever I desired, from Markarth to Winterhold. I even travelled to High Rock and Cyrodiil. Every inn would trade me a meal and a bed from a night of revelry. And of course, the beds were plenty large enough for two; I rarely spent a night cold and alone. It was so severed from my childhood, and I loved every minute.

And I despise every minute I waste away here in Riverwood once more.

I'll admit it's hardly the worst place I've plied my trade. Winterhold comes to mind; no amount of the finest Blackbriar Reserve promised by the innkeeper could convince me to spend another bitter cold night amongst those equally bitter mages and malcontents. I look around from the porch of my mother's house. Here, at least, the weather is serene, the patrons are boisterous, and that old haggler Delphine pays me a decent wage for my nights at the inn. Good Colovian Brandy, too. Not that Honnngbrew swill from down the road. Too bad all the women in town were married and, more importantly, faithful. (Not altogether too terrible a problem, hard to avoid a cuckolded husband when you live mere houses away.)

From the corner of my eye, I notice movement at the Riverwood Trader. Lucky me, the one unattached woman in all Riverwood is arranging wares in plain view. Camila Valerius. A gorgeous Imperial woman who opened the store with her brother sometime during my absence. Despite my best efforts, and her obvious interest, I've yet to entice her into bed. I've had more than my fair share of rejection, from whispered apologies to slaps and thrown drinks. But this... This is different. I've never pined after the local tavern wench, or felt pangs of jealousy when they flirted with other men or mer. I wonder when I realized I was courting Camila rather than merely chasing her skirt.

It's due to this recent realization I find myself scowling, despite her presence nearby. Not because of Camila, but because of another man, chopping wood just across the path, thankfully out of sight. A rival of love, and the main obstacle standing between myself and Camila. Faendal. The damned pointy-eared tree-hugger somehow managed to worm his way into Camila's life. And for some gods-awful reason, she seems just as interested. I silently seeth as I furtively glare at the wood elf, working away in silence. What she sees in the waif-ish fool, I can't tell. Even now, he's lazing about, chatting up some stranger in robes. But their private conversations and shared laughter during my sets at the inn make it all too clear how close they are growing. It's unbearable.

I hear a yelling from behind me, startling me out of my silent animosity. Reluctantly I face the second roadblock to my romance. My mother.

"A dragon! I saw a dragon!" She raves, pointing to the sky.

For a moment, I'm completely puzzled. "What? What is it now, mother?"

"It was as big as the mountain, and black as night. It flew right over the barrow!"

Gods, it's getting worse. "Dragons, now, is it? Please, mother, if you keep on like this, everyone in town will think you're crazy." The fact that she undeniable was touched in the head notwithstanding. "And I've got better things to do than listen to more of your fantasies."

With that, my mother droops her head and shuffles away, muttering under her breath petulantly; "You'll see. It was a dragon. It'll kill us all, and then you'll believe me."

My mother. The bane of my life. I'd been sojourning in Cyrodiil when a courier found me, bearing a letter that mother had contracted Brain Fever. I rushed home, expecting a funeral, but instead finding a brain-addled parent who had survived almost certain death. Whether blessing or curse, I was unsure, considering it left her incapable of caring for herself.

And so I remain.

...

"She's right, you know."

I near jump straight out of my clothes at the sudden voice behind me, turning to find the stranger from earlier standing just over my shoulder. "S...Sorry?"

"About the dragon. She did see one. I'm Talao, by the way."

I take his proffered hand instinctively. "Sven. I'm sorry, but did you just say my mother actually saw a  _dragon?_ Surely, you jest. It's not possible; dragons have been extinct since the Second Era."

"Ah, true. I suppose the flaming ruins of Helgen were assaulted by a figment of my imagination then."

I laugh nervously, but the man's expression doesn't change. "By the gods, you're serious. Helgen gone?" Visions of Riverwood going the way of Helgen flashed before my eyes, and I had to repress a shudder. "You had best tell the Jarl in Whiterun. He needs to know about this."

"Most certainly, Sven. But I need your help with something, and that fellow Faendal said you might be able to assist me." I must not have been able to disguise my disgust at the mention of the damned elf, as he continues, "Faendal made the same face before he mentioned your name. Bad blood?"

Frankly, I wasn't sure how much I should tell the man. Gossip is always less enticing when the subject is yourself. But along the same lines, my love life is hardly a secret in this town, and he'd be certain to hear about the particulars soon enough. And better he take my side than that wretched wood-elf. Mayhap he could even help me somehow. "I suppose you could say we're rivals of love. Camila Valerius knows I'm the best man in Riverwood. That elf is kidding himself if he thinks she would choose him over me. I've seen him sneaking over to the Riverwood Trader to speak with her when I'm not around. He's wasting his time."

A wry look appears on Talao's face. "Yes, two people spending time together never blossoms into courtship."

His response peeves me. "Is that sarcasm? I've heard better wisecracks from Orgnar, and I've never seen him smile." At this, Talao bursts into laughter, rather than become insulted. It puts me at ease, knowing he can take a barb in good nature. "Still, you have a point. Camila letting Faendal visit her isn't a good thing for me."

"What do you plan to do about it? Though, far be it from me to intrude on your business..."

Yes, he could definitely help me. "Perhaps... I could forge a letter filled with venemous nonsense. If you delivered it to Camila and claimed it was from Faendal, she'd be sure to spurn his advances." I almost laugh at the simplistic brilliance of it.

However, instead of agreement, I found myself faced with silence. "I do hope that wasn't your final plan."

Confusion. Irritation. "And why not?"

"You seem under the impression she'll take the letter at face value," he says, crossing his arms. "But what if she confronts Faendal about it? Or if he seeks her out?"

This gives me pause, as my mind reels at the possibilities. "He might convince her he didn't write it. And I'd be the obvious suspect."

"Aye. You'd likely come off as rather childish and desperate."

"Driving Camila further into Faendal's arms." I sigh, my good mood deflating. "God's what a fool I am. What am I supposed to do?"

"Do you love her?"

Do I love her? What an asinine question. But before I fire off a witty retort, I realize his question is one I had never truly considered before. Camila was a beautiful woman, to be sure. But had I ever regarded her as... more? Someone to spend the rest of my life with, rather than a night or two of passion?

The answer came more quickly than I would have imagine. "Yes. I do."

Talao's face breaks out into a broad smile. "Then what are you waiting for? Go tell her so. As only a bard can."

As only a bard can? "Well, I had been composing a ballad for her..."

"Rubbish. Toss it."

"Pardon? You just said..."

Still the grin doesn't leave his face. "Composing is far too cerebral for a declaration of love. Save it for an anniversary or a wedding. Find you lass, and spill your heart to her. Let your emotions flow like a stream, and the sincerity will do far more than any mere couplet."

It all seems... Too simple. I want to protest, to tell him of every barrier that stands between us, but he interrupts me once more; "No, no protestations, no excuses. Whatever you may think is holding you back, it's nothing that will dissuade her if she truly returns your feelings."

Somehow, his words inspire me with the confidence I had been lacking. "If this works, you can have whatever it is that you had planned to ask me for earlier." I've never wanted to be in someone's debt more than this minute.


	6. Ralof II

**Sundas, 17th of Last Seed 4E201 6PM**

_Ralof_

_I have a problem,_ a voice in my head slurs as I look into my flagon of mead. Empty. Another voice slurs, _Yes, the problem is that my cup is empty._ "Orgnar. Another pint."

"You sure about that pal? You're already three pints in.

I slam my cup onto the bar, perhaps harder than intended. "Are you the barkeep, or my mother? I don't see any tits on you, so fill the damn cup! If you'd seen what I'd seen this day, you'd be looking for Oblivion in the bottom of a cup as well!"

If my outburst phased the man at all, his apathetic face sure doesn't betray it as he takes my cup to the tap. "Fine. But don't blame me when you throw your septims up later outside." As he returns the full cup to me, he asks, "And what was so terrifying that it'd cause such a fine soldier as yourself to drink mead like water?"

"A dragon, you old goat!" Damn my drunken mouth, I spit it out without thinking. This at least seems to startle the stoic barkeep. His eyes widen, and I notice old Delphine stop sweeping and stiffen as well.

"A dragon, eh?" Orgnar scratches his stuffy beard. "Sure you were sober when you walked in here?"

Before I can retort, the last voice I want to hear sounds from behind me."He's telling the truth." Bloody Hadvar. Of course. He walks in, sitting at the other end of the bar. "A gods-honest dragon appeared at Helgen. The town's little more than a pile of rubble now.

Of course, the bastards believe him immediately. I suppose an Imperial uniform gives you credibility regardless of the claim. I see Delphine turn white and dash into a sideroom, and Orgnar offers Hadvar a drink.

"Honningbrew," Hadvar responds.

"Pah, why not just order a mug of milk if you've not the stomach for a real drink." The insult has both men bristling, and I take my drink and myself to a nearby table. The stumble might have taken some of the bite away, but damned if I'll sit in the company of damned traitors.

The tavern is mercifully empty as I nurse my Black-Briar Reserve in silence. Though I know it won't last, this close to evening. It was unseasonable warm, and you could count on the locals whetting their parched throats with a mug or two after they finish their work. For some reason, it reminded me of my time with the Stormcloaks. We trained under a bastard of a man called Galmar Stone-Fist. Every day we trained damn near nonstop from dawn to dusk. And every day, he made sure we trained hardest when the sun was highest. Sad we'd need to be ready to fight at any time; "Your enemy won't care if you're too hot to put your shield between you and them." Spent weeks constantly exhausted before I got used to it.

Yet for all that, it seems old habits die hard. One measly dragon attack and I fall back into old patterns. It's familiar. And calming. Then someone drops on the bench beside me, interrupting the calming familiarity of my drink. "By Talos, can't you tell when a man wants to enjoy his drink alone?"

"You don't look like you're enjoying much of anything right now." Godsdamned Hadvar. Never learned to shut his mouth for anything. "The Ralof I used to know would've been glorying on about his escape from near-certain death. Regaling his story to everyone in town."

"What do you want, Imperial?"

He pauses a moment. "Company."

I scoff, but since he seems subdued now, I go back to my mug. A few moment pass in silence, the first few villagers starting to trickle in from their mills and fields. Amazing how careless they seem; even without knowing about the dragon, it's as if the sleepy town has been unaffected by the war. A bloody war, right under their noses. Blessing there, else someone might have called the Imperials to clap me in irons again. How easy it might be, just to stay here and resume the simple life I led before I enlisted under Ulfric.

"I don't hate you, you know?" It took me a second to realize Hadvar was speaking to me. The look on his face almost seems... Wistful? "For joining the rebels... Sorry, the Stormcloaks."

"What are you on about?"

He chews on his words before speaking again. "I know you probably despise me for joining the Legion. Expected me to defect once Ulfric's call went out. But I don't hate you for becoming a Stormcloak. You followed your heart and you went out to make a change. Hell, maybe I even envy you. I was always content to follow orders. Even as lads, you'd be the one making up the adventures we acted out."

Had I drunk anymore than I had already, I'd have assumed I was hallucinating. Unfortunately, I was sober enough to consider his words. A few hours ago - was it only hours? - we'd been set to tear out each others' throats. But was it truly because we hated each other?

"If you had asked me this morning," I said, "what I thought of my old childhood friend Hadvar, I would have made Talos himself blush with the obscenities to pass my lips. I considered every Imperial godless bastards, guilty of allowing or helping the damn Thalmor of every crime they committed. Hadvar's grip tightens on his mug, and I watch his face steel up.

"But... Now I remember... Or you just reminded... You're all people, same as me. You helped save all those townsfolk from that great black beast. You joined the legion to try to change things, no different than I. And you'd be an even greater traitor by betraying the oaths to your cause solely because of your cowardly commanders." I grin at Hadvar. "Come now, if I truly wanted you dad, I'd have let that dragon carry you away this morning."

I must have surprised him, as he takes a moment to retort. "And here I though you were just saving Talao and I was in the way."

"Might have helped." We chuckle together, and just like that, it's as if we are young again, sharing a mug. Only now the ale isn't snuck out from under our parents' noses. And for the next few hours, we forget that we might find each other opposite our blades on the field of battle soon.


	7. Balgruuf I

_**Morndas, 18** _ _**th** _ _**of Last Seed 4E201 6PM** _

**Balgruuf**

I am the Jarl of Whiterun, Balgruuf the Greater. I enjoy my place, caring for my people as best I can. However, nothing could have prepared me for the headache I face this day. Nothing my father taught me could have prepared me for dragons.

When the reports first came in, I admit I scoffed at the lone scout. Paranoid ramblings, I thought, the product of an overworked soldier's mind. At least until I spotted one of the damned things myself from my balcony during my midday meal. I heard it scream, and felt fire burn in my veins, the fear and desire to fight bursting forth from my soul.

Pity then, my place requires such tedium as this.

"My Lord, please, you must listen. I only counsel caution."

The words of my advisor, Avenicci. Smart enough, and truly a political genius, but at times - like now - his cowardly Imperial blood shows through. Not that I would ever say so to his face.

"If the news from Helgen is true... Well, there's no telling what it means."

Inaction is Avenicci's favorite strategy. Not that action is always the better option, but standing idly by has never been the Nord way. "What would you have me do, then? Nothing?!"

"My Lord, this is no time for _rash action._ I just think we need more information before we act. I just..."

Inaction again. Even the rumour of the kind of destruction reported at Helgen should be enough to warrant some kind of measure, defensive or otherwise. Politics be damned if it cost me the lives of my people. This is just like the Giant incident from last Frostfall. I look around for some distraction, that the 9... 8 might grant me the patience to endure this farce of a meeting. Must to my surprise as I find one. Two, in fact. A pair of strangers, stopped at the head of the dining hall by my Housecarl, Irileth. A Dunmer, and the most loyal fighter I;ve had the fortune to battle alongside, who showed me the true meaning of the phrase, "blood is thicker than water."

"Who's this then?"

The two strangers sink to their knees and state their names, as Irileth whispiers to me what little she had been told.

"Sven, of Riverwood."

"Talao, of High Rock."

Hmm, a Nord and a Breton. Sven I vaguely recall having entertained at the Huntsman a while back, on one of my nighttime jaunts. The Breton is not familiar to me, though both seem quite comfortable at court. And odd combination, the two of them. Hardly the time for reminiscing, though.

"So, Irileth tells me you were at Helgen. You saw this dragon with you own eyes?" An eyewitness account of the destruction is all I need to convince Avenicci to act... Or more likely, enough to properly overrule his counsel.

Sven shifts slightly; "Not I, my Jarl, but Talao here was present. I merely guided him to you, out of concern for our town's safety."

"Yes, I had a great view of it as the Empire was about to chop off my head. I do a terrible chicken impression."

I blink. "You're certainly..." Blunt, I wish to say. But that would be blunt of me. "Forthcoming about your criminal past."

The Breton grins in response. "Nay, I said they wished to execute me, not that I was guilty of any crime. Regardless, I imagine the threat of a dragon capable of razing an entire town filled with Imperial troops would take precedence over the circumstances of my capture."

Kynareth save me, the man's tongue is inlaid with more silver than my cutlery. But he is certainly correct. "What do you say now, Proventus? Shall we continue to trust in the strength of our walls? Against a dragon?"

"My Lord," Irileth says, "We should send troops to Riverwood at once. It's in the most immediate danger." A dark look crosses her face, and I can imagine the scene playing in her mind. "If that dragon is still lurking in the mounains..."

Surprisingly, Avenicci interject once again, "The Jarl of Falkreath will view that as a provocation! He'll assume we're preparing to join Ulfric's side and attack him. We should not..."

"ENOUGH!" The vehemence in my voice didn't truly match my emotions. Perhaps it was the thought that anyone would think I would join Ulfric the Storm Cloak. Maybe it was my frustration at practically having to babysit my own counselors instead of mediate an actual discussion. More likely, it's to prevent Irileth from murdering Avenicci where he stands, if the murderous mask on her her face is aught to go by. "I'll not stand idly by while a dragon burns my hold and slaughters my people. Irileth, send a detachment to Riverwood at once."

"Yes, my Jarl." To my relief, she salutes and leaves without further issue.

Avenicci, however, looks as though someone had run a rancid potion underneath his nose. "If you'll excuse me, I have other duties to attend."

"That would be best." To be sure, the man is invaluable to my court, and has a knack for thinking through any negative reactions from others. For certain, I'll have him draw up a missive to the Jarl of Falkreath to reassure him of my neutrality and warn him of the dragon. By my first duty is, was, and will always be the safety of those under my banner. Speaking of which...

"Well done. You sought me out, on your own initiative. You've done Whiterun a service, and I won't forget it. As a reward, I shall grant each of you a small token of my esteem.." They both smile, and I lean forward in anticipation of their answers... Well, one of them at least. Sven seems a loyal but simple Nord, but the steel within Talao intrigues me. It did not escape my gaze, the gleam within his eye as he mentioned the dragon. Perhaps there is truth to the idea that Bretons have Nordic blood within them.

"My Jarl," Sven begins, "I am truly grateful for you offer, but the guards you have dispatched to watch over my village is reward enough."

"Nonsense. It is my duty and privilege to protect the people under my care. I wish to honor you personally."

"Well," he looks uncomfortable, but I urge him on with a smile of my own. "In that case, my Jarl, I have just yesterday found myself promised to a beautiful young woman. In no small part thanks to my brave friend here. If you would gift us some livestock to help begin our lives, I would be forever grateful."

"A most reasonable and thoughtful request. I'll discuss the particulars with my steward, but I assure you it will be done before your wedding. "A cow and several hogs should be more than sufficient."

"Many thanks, my Jarl."

"And you?" I turn to Talao. "What gift may I bestow upon you?"

"Well, sir, I am but a humble bard. Whereas my friend here is a tree about to set his roots, I am as the wind, travelling wheresoever my story goes. I have little need for material things, but I should truly enjoy performing fo your court some day."

"Truly?" A bard, then. Like Sven himself. That would indeed explain much. "You wish only to ply your trade here in Dragonsreach?"

"Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Jarl. Well, once I replace my instrument, that is." At this, he ruffles his hair, looking rather sheepish for once. "I fear my old one is naught but ash by now."

Hmm. Self-serving, but not selfish... Yes, he'll do, I think. "If that is your desire, it shall be done. Kyne willing, you'll not deafen us as our last bard did, though I use the title loosely. And I imagine far as you are from your home, you'll have many tales to tell us." I stand, and they follow. "Again, I thank you for your service. My blessings on your union, Sven, and may Kyne grants you warm winds and fertile fields. "I pause a moment, that my dismissal is clear, and as they turn to leave, I call out, "Talao, a word, if I may?" The two share a glance, and a brief farewell before he returns to face me.

"Yes, Jarl Balgruuf?"

"There is another thing you could do for me. Suitable for someone of your particular talents, perhaps." To his confused look, I say, "Come, let's find Farengar, my court wizard. He's been looking into a matter related to these dragons and... Rumors of dragons." As I lead him to a side chamber, my mind is racing with how best to entice Talao into this errand. He may not be a warrior, but I sense that his presence may mean the difference between survival and destruction. I know the stories of what the return of the dragons signifies, but damned if I'll not do my best to avert catastrophe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings, readers. Long time no see. I promised to keep A/Ns to a minimum for this story and let it speak for itself, but I felt the need to apologize for the long break. Fret not, I am here to stay, personal life aside. I have a sketch of the story from beginning to end, and several chapters ahead written. Expect upwards of 70 chapters of bard-y goodness.
> 
> As far as travel times goes, I actually spent several hours trying to figure it out. You can PM me for the math, but in order to make the distances meaningful and sensical, 1 mile in game is roughly equivalent to 200 miles in this fic. This makes the province of Skyrim about the size of an average European country. Similarly, height-wise 1 mile in game is equivalent to 10 miles of height in the fic, which makes Monahven equivalent to the size of Mount Everest.
> 
> Any other questions are, of course, welcome.


	8. Farengar I

_**Sunday, 17** _ _**th** _ _**of Last Seed 4E201 6pm** _

**Farengar**

I am Farengar, of the Secret-Fire. No, my name is not the result of idle gossip over a flame I harbour for this or that maid in town - or man, as some for some reason think. But it is true I have a secret obsession.

Dragons.

Ever since my youth, the Nord tales of dragon-killing legends held me like no other. Who care for the sordid exploits of Ragnar the Dead when massive scaled beasts who razed towns with their fiery breath still existed in legend? Why listen to the affairs of Daedra when one could envision taking to the skies astride a dragon? Yes, that was what inspired me; the magic of eld.

How disappointing, then, to discover nearly all Tamriel's information regarding them was oral and apocryphal. The College of Winterhold held scant few books on the topic. And of course, the College of Whispers and the Synods are too busy jockeying for power to share what little they recovered over the years. I even petitioned the Greybeards atop the Throat of the World for their help, but my query was ignored by the recluses. I suppose with their supposed extinction, nobody saw fit to keep records about dragons. Nothing on physiology, or migratory patterns, or even behaviour. (Unless you believe the stories that paint them all as mindless harbingers of death. Which I don't.) All I could find when I began was the fact that dragons had their own language, spoken and written, and that these words gave dragons the powers told of in stories. I even stumbled upon an alphabet, but no dictionary of words. That was it.

A dozen seasons I spent, following the most minuscule of leads, expanding what little knowledge I had of the fell beasts. Comparing stories to find common links. Looking for vague references in unrelated texts from three eras ago.

Along the way, I suppose I became a mage of some renown, and would up a court wizard to the Jarl of Whiterun. Would I were not tied down, but man cannot live by will alone. And I suppose the extra influence from my position is useful when requesting some obscure text from a private collection. But even then, my obsession was largely ridiculed for its seeming uselessness. Not that I cared what others might have thought; knowledge for my own personal desires was more than enough for me.

Well, at least until yesterday. I suppose some legends aren't to remain solely legends. And suddenly, my amusing hobby has made me the most valuable citizen under the Jarl's employ.

Thus, I find myself poring over my notes, all the information I've gathered in an effort to prepare for... Well, whatever may come. Destruction, most likely. Weaknesses to exploit, strengths to defend against. But there's stills o little we know. If only the Jarl would let me complete this recent request, but no, I'm locked up here and...

I feel a tug at the ward I placed upon my door, signalling that someone has entered my rooms. And more importantly, disrupting my concentration. It's annoying, if necessary. I once ignored Avenicci for five minutes once, I was so engrossed in my own thoughts. Doesn't help that the man is more dull than Heimskr's incessant babbling.

Where was I again? Right, visitors.

I step out into the receiving area, and find Balgruuf himself waiting for me. Along with... Some other man? Gods, I hope I haven't met him before; I hate forgetting names and faces. Note to self, look into perhaps making a journal to record people's names and characteristics, so I'm not clueless about every person who walks in.

"My Jarl."

"Farengar, I think I've found someone who can help you with your dragon project. Go ahead and fill Talao in on the details." Odd. The Jarl usually wastes time on pleasantries when he visits. Well, I suppose the current situation has everyone a bit off-kilter, even Balgruuf.

The man in question seems a bit... Shrimpy. Nothing in particular stands out to me; he seems rather bland. "So, the Jarl thinks you can be of use to me?" Certainly no warrior, no armor, no weapons. "He must be referring to my research into the dragons. Yes, I could use someone to fetch something for me."

"That's it?" he asks.

I hesitate for a second. But the Jarl seems convinced, if his look is anything to go by. I suppose it's on him if the unlucky bastard dies. "Well, when I say fetch, I really mean delve into a dangerous ruin in search of an ancient stone tablet that may or may not actually be there."

He blinks. Stunned and confused, if I read his expression correctly. "And this has, uh, what to do with dragons, exactly?"

Damn. Definitely spooked him. Maybe I shouldn't have been so blunt with him. My doubts grow, but again, Balgruuf must have chosen him for a reason. Perhaps if I try stroking his ego; I find that works wonders. "Ah, no mere brute mercenary, but a thinker - perhaps even a scholar?"

"Of a sort, I suppose. I'm a bard by profession.

We're doomed.

No, stop that. Find the common ground... Stories! "You see, when the stories of dragons began to circulate, many dismissed them as mere fantasies, rumors. Impossibilities. One sure mark of a fool is to dismiss anything that falls outside his experience as being impossible. But I began to search for information about dragons a while back - where had they gone all those years ago? And where could they be coming from now?"

He nods, his earlier hesitation gone. "To be sure, our own history is often the key to understanding the present." Smart man. I truly hope he comes back alive. "What do you hope to find in this ruin?"

"Of course. I, ah, learned of a certain stone tablet said to be housed within Bleak Falls Barrow - a "Dragonstone," - said to contain a map of dragon burial sites."

"Burial sites? Are you planning to exhume a corpse? Or..." His eyes widen, "Perhaps they're, what, being resurrected."

"Possible. I highly doubt it flew here from Akavir, since all sources seem to agree they all left en masse. Necromancy is an option, though it begs the question why only now has such a thing happened. We don't know, which is where you come in. Go to Bleak Falls Barrow, find this tablet - no doubt interred within the main chamber - and bring it to me. Simplicity itself."

"This is a priority now," Balgruuf interjects. Obviously. "Anything we can use to fight this dragon, or dragons. We need it, quickly. Before it's too late."

"Of course, Jarl Balgruuf." Of course, it only took the imminent destruction of Whiterun to inspire interest in my work. Silver linings. "You seem to have found me an able assistant. I'm sure he will prove most useful." And I suppose I do mean it. A little.

"Succeed at this, and you will be rewarded. Whiterun will be truly in your debt. Speak to Proventus if you should need any supplies for your trip, as I'm sure you're running low after your ordeal at Helgen." With that declaration, which I'm sure he thought very grand, Balgruuf exits, leaving Talao and myself alone. I can't help but sigh heavily. Working with others can be so tedious. But sadly necessary. Back to my research then. Based on the shape of the skull of the dragon above the Jarl's throne, (how ghastly) it seems clear that...

"Ahem." The sound startles me, and it take a moment to realize it's Talao. Standing in the same place. "You're still here?"

"Yes," he replies with a grimace. "See, while I'm indeed grateful for the trust your Jarl has placed in me, I'm... Well, not a terribly seasoned fighter. In fact, you could say I'm utter rubbish in a fight."

"Your point?"

"I'm about to dive into a Nordic ruin, which from past experience can often house Draugr, bandits, and other things that would gladly tear the flesh from my bones. I need some manner of protection beyond whatever supplies I can gather in town."

Reasonable enough. Smart not to go barreling to his death, at least. "Well, I do have a small collection of spell tomes for sale here, but I doubt you would be able to learn anything of value overnight. You could always find some easily swayed mercenary at the local tavern that's daring or dull enough to join you. Though I would prefer you keep my research between as few people as possible. It wouldn't do to worry the locals about something so trivial as our utter lack of understanding of dragons."

"No, certainly not," he laughs. "Thank you for the information."

As he turns to leave, I'm struck by a bout of inspiration. "Wait a moment." I dash into a side-room I use to store things on which I'm not currently working, to grab... Damn where is it? Aha! There. An old staff, carved into the likeness of a golden dragon. Though it's fade so thoroughly it seems mere yellow now. I return and present it to him. "This is an old staff of mine, back from when my research was... Less sedate. It's enchanted with a basic Fireball spell. Perfect for combating undead and bandits alike. I keep it charged, but old as it is I don't know how many casts it will last for. Better than anything you'll find at Belethor's, though, I guarantee."

He takes it reverently. Or maybe fearfully, as if he's afraid it might explode. Hmm, that's a frightful thought, can staves explode under certain conditions? Add it to the research list. "Thank you, Farengar. I shall treat it well."

"See that you do. I would like it back in one piece, if possible, but better if it should help you complete my task." Strange that I'd part with it after so long, but I suppose it's been gathering dust anyway. Besides, my history is locked safely within my own mind. I wave farewell to... By Julianos, I've already forgotten his name. I'll just check with Balgruuf at some point. Now... All dragon stories feature fire-breathing, so we'll need to stockpile reservoirs of water. Perhaps we can ward against it? Or is their magic so different that they'll be ineffective? What about...


End file.
